


Elements

by Ercasse



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 12:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17182958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ercasse/pseuds/Ercasse
Summary: When Geralt finally happens upon Iorveth, he stops dead. The elf stands in a loose undershirt, his worn trousers and nothing else. His feet are bare and his raven hair falls freely over pointed ears to his shoulders.Geralt suddenly forgets that he’s spent the last two hours climbing the rocky slopes in search of the elusive Socia’tael leader.A few short prompts for this fandom. Gen. Unless you squint really hard.





	Elements

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to close a few metaphorical doors (ie works which have been cluttering up my harddrive). Some short prompts featuring Geralt and Iorveth. Gen.

WIND

 

When Geralt finally happens upon Iorveth, he stops dead. The elf stands in a loose undershirt, his worn trousers and nothing else. His feet are bare and his raven hair falls freely over pointed ears to his shoulders.

Geralt suddenly forgets that he’s spent the last two hours climbing the rocky slopes in search of the elusive Socia’tael leader. 

“Gwynbleidd.” Iorveth hears him approach, of course. He doesn’t even turn his head.

“Iorveth….what are you doing up here?”

“Don’t tell me you climbed the slopes just to ask me that?”

Geralt huffs in annoyance. “I’d have shouted from the bottom if I thought it would have worked. I came to tell you – “

“Stop.”

Geralt glares at his shoulder blades.

The elf turns then, and wordlessly beckons him closer. Geralt obliges, coming to stand at his side. Geralt follows his gaze out to the landscape below, but can find no disturbances – nothing that would warrant the elf’s rapt attention.

“The wind.”

“The wind?” Geralt echoes, waiting for something that would explain the elf’s erratic behaviour.

Iorveth suddenly reaches out and pulls the leather cord that binds Geralt’s hair in place. Geralt is too surprised to resist as Iorveth manoeuvres them so that Iorveth is behind him and they are both facing the landscape below.

“Use your Witcher senses, Geralt.” Iorveth instructs.

Geralt scans their surroundings automatically, like he has done countless times before. It is instinctual, like breathing. He senses no danger. Iorveth cuffs him, relatively gently, in one ear.

“Not for monsters, Geralt.”

Geralt bites his tongue before he can say what’s on his mind.

Again, he extends his senses out, listening. Testing.

There’s the fresh cool scent of the snow, the sound of rustling branches, the movement of birds, the feel of the wind through his hair and clothes, the warmth of the sun….

“Spring is coming”. Iorveth’s warm breath ghosts along his neck, and Geralt’s skin tingles in response.

The pieces suddenly fit into place.

Never has Geralt forgotten that his companion is Aen Seidhe. Scoia’tael. The leader of an army. He is ruthless and cunning – all sharp edges and venom.

So moments like this catch the Witcher off guard. They are like a glimpse into the past – of a younger Iorveth. One who isn’t carrying the weight of thousands of lives on his shoulders. One who hasn’t had his face carved up at the hands of humans.

Before he can think about what he’s doing, Geralt reaches into one of his herb pouches and presents the item to the Scoia’tael leader.

“Galanthus”.  Iorveth names the small white flower immediately. The elf holds it carefully in his palm.

The Witcher clears his throat. “I found a few of these coming up through the snow. Picked it on impulse”.

Geralt can’t believe he’s just offered Iorveth a flower. He decides that he will submit to torture before telling another soul about this.

“Thought you might like it.”

“…Hantalë, Gwynbleidd”. Iorveth thanks him, slipping the flower into the lacing on his shirt. “Come, you can share your news on the way down….”

 

 

RESURFACE

 

Geralt’s feet hit the water first, sending a jarring sensation all the way to his scalp. His body reacts and he involuntarily draws a breath. Of water. Desperately he propels himself upwards.

When the Witcher resurfaces, his lungs are aflame with smoke and water. He coughs for a few moments, trying to expel the water. Already he can feel the burns on his arms and back.  

Ahead he can see one of the elvish women being pulled from the river and onto the barge - but where is the other? He scans the water close by, figuring the current can’t have carried her too far – there!

Ripples are the only indication of her position – she’s still underwater. Geralt fills his protesting lungs and dives, looking for the light coloured-fabric – the only thing even his Witcher eyes are likely to spot in the gloom. She’s still descending – dangerously deep now. It’s clear she cannot swim.

Geralt aims for her – grabbing her arm and hauling them both through the water as fast as he can. She’s still conscious, but she’s struggling not to breathe in. Closer, closer, then they finally break the surface, heaving in lungfulls of air.

Geralt immediately has a new battle on his hands as the she-elf struggles in his grip – trying to use him as leverage to stay afloat. Her survival instincts have kicked in, and no amount of reasoning will curb them.

They’ve already drifted yards down the river on the current, the barge disappointingly far away. Exhausted, burnt, and half-drowned, Geralt does the only thing he can to improve their odds. He strikes the she-elf across the face, momentarily stunning her.

Quickly, he manoeuvres behind her and locks an arm about her shoulders. Swimming almost sideways, he starts to tow her through the water.

Geralt is so busy focusing on keeping them both moving and above the water, his heart stutters when he literally bumps into an elf. His first thought is that it’s another elf fleeing the fire – but then he notices the red bandanna.

Iorveth roughly pulls Geralt into an embrace and all three of them start to speed through the water. A rope, the Witcher realises. Iorveth’s tied a rope about himself to keep him linked to the boat.

They seem to glide through the water effortlessly now – quickly reaching the side of the barge. They manoeuvre the she elf into outstretched hands and she disappears from the water. A net is thrown over the side and both males use the holes as footing to climb out of the water and onto the deck.

Geralt just sprawls there for a few moments, uncaring of the elves gathered around them.

“Next time you do something so incredibly stupid, I’m leaving you in the water”. Iorveth barks at him. This is swiftly followed by a stream of elvish – orders to his men.

Suddenly Iorveth is urging him to his feet. “Come, Gwynbleidd, you can show me which of your foul smelling potions is going to help with your burns…”

 

 

WINTER

 

The cave probably isn’t that much warmer – it’s shallow and not very large. But Geralt decides to make his bed in there anyway. He’s spent enough time camping under the stars in the dead of winter to last him a few lifetimes. Snow can’t be far away.

The small band of Aen Seidhe have already set camp nearby amongst a scattering of rock formations, using them as buffers against the wind. Geralt had politely offered to share his temporary space, but had been met with equally polite refusals. El’yas had added that he’d had enough of caves and confined spaces to last him an eternity. And that was that.

Geralt is confident he is close enough to hear any disturbances during the night, but far enough away to afford himself some privacy. He is so used to travelling on his own, it can be overwhelming to be constantly thrown together with others – no matter how considerate his companions may be.

When he is down to only his trousers, Geralt picks a corner, lies down and spreads a blanket over himself. It is of elvish make – thin but quite warm.

Witchers do not technically need to sleep – a deep meditation works just as well – but Geralt finds himself more inclined to actually sleep during the cold months. It is…comforting.

He falls asleep quickly.

Geralt is jolted from sleep as ice cold flesh presses against him. His first thought turns to monsters and he prepares to strike – until he recognises a flash of red and black and he wills his body to relax.

“Iorveth. It’s the middle of the fucking night.” He murmurs, thickly.

“Hello to you too Gwynbleidd.” Iorveth snipes right back. “Berrin won’t help us. In fact, it couldn’t have gone worse.”

“So onto plan B then”.

“Mmm.”

“Your people are stationed near the rocks, a thousand yards south.”

“I know.” Iorveth stretches out next to the Witcher.

Geralt sighs and pulls the elf into an embrace. “Your skin is like ice. I thought you were a wraith.” He grumbles.

Iorveth huffs a laugh. “Next time I’ll find a sunny rock to bask on first.” He quips.

“I used to enjoy winter, Gwynbleidd.” He continues quietly. “When I was younger, my city was known for its Yule festival. There were ice carving competitions, a feast, and all crafted goods were designed around themes of ice and snow. I remember a group of us jumped into a frozen lake one year on a dare…”

Geralt remains silent, holding back his questions. He’s discovered that questions are the surest way to make the elf clam up.

“There have been too many cold months for my people since then. Now we know what it is to feel the cold, to want for food...I do not know that I could ever celebrate winter’s arrival again. My hope is that one day, there will be younglings celebrating Yule once again – without knowing either of those feelings…”

“You will not fail them, Iorveth. Just remember to include yourself in that future. As a crotchety, _ancient_ Aen Seidhe, barking at the younglings for being stupid enough to throw themselves into icy rivers…”

Iorveth stares at him solemnly for a moment, and Geralt thinks his message has sunk in. Then –

“Are you calling me _old,_ Geralt?”

 


End file.
